Hard Truth
by cheride
Summary: Some things you wish you didn't know.


_This is a work of fanfiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters and concepts of Hardcastle and McCormick do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**Author's Note:** Last month, Owl issued a challenge about truth, and I really did have an answer in mind. But RL and other things (which ought to be a title to its own story, don't you think?) got in the way and it never got done. But somewhere in the last day or so of January, this scene popped into my head. There were some reasons I didn't post it then, but then we moved into this week's episode discussion, and this little ficlet was just sitting in my file doing nothing, so I figured, what the heck? And, as is so often true, I owe a debt of thanks to Owl and LML for encouragement.

Oh, and one last thing, before these notes become longer than the story itself: Owl said I should post a warning, so if I can borrow her words I'll say that this scene contains intimations of mortality.

**Hard Truth**

by

Cheride

The woman sat quietly in the chair, hands folded in her lap, eyes trained across the small room. She wasn't surprised when the phone rang, but she didn't move to answer it—didn't want to move to answer it. It was probably her imagination that caused each ring to seem more frantic than the last, but for the first time in her life she found herself wishing for an answering machine. She knew it was too much to hope that the ringing would stop.

Finally, she pushed herself slowly from the chair and crossed to the table, lifting the receiver from its cradle. "Hello."

She listened as the words came in a rush, and now it didn't take any imagination at all to hear the frantic tone. But layered underneath the frenzy was a weariness she hadn't heard from the man before; an aging that hadn't been apparent even six months earlier. She closed her eyes as she listened, wishing she could block out the conversation that she had known was coming and couldn't stop.

She thought back over the past year, to the morning she had awakened with a new and certain knowledge, and she had picked up this same phone to give the man the news. The information was cruel and painful; she knew that. But she also knew that calling the other would have been futile, and she had hoped there was still time to make a difference. Sadly, that was not to be. There had been time for tests and diagnoses and treatments, but the time for making a difference—if it had ever been—had passed.

On the other hand, there had also been time for laughter and fun, and even a bit more work. They had made time for togetherness, knowing it wouldn't always last. And now, though it seemed as cruel and painful as the dawn almost twelve months ago, she knew there would also be time for goodbye.

She brought her attention back to the words coming from the phone and forced herself to listen to the details of the man's day. A quiet day, it seemed, with his friend unusually somber and withdrawn, though there had been moments of unbridled honesty and deep sincerity. Then, a request for an evening out, someplace where they could get a perfect steak and potato to be followed by a slice of pecan pie. And finally, a viewing of _True Grit_ before bedtime—the first time in weeks the older man had stayed awake to see the ending of his beloved Duke films. It had to be a good sign, she heard him saying, and under the words she heard his plea for reassurance.

But the calendar on the wall, the page newly turned just this morning, showed the same scenic image she had been seeing for almost a week, though she had long since given up trying to convince others. And she would never be able to explain the different visions of single items that let her know that the first day of this month would be the last day of so many things. So, rather than try to explain, she steeled herself to tell this man the truth—the last thing he wanted to hear, though she knew he would believe.

And then Millie Denton hung up the phone, sank into her waiting chair, and wished that just this once, the tears would make her blind.


End file.
